My cell phone serves as some kind of lifeline and I hold it in my hand and just stare at the voice mail symbol with the number two beside it. I could play the messages and probably know more of what is happening, but now I’m afraid to hear them. Michael is restless. He seems to struggle with the news that I don’t yet know. “I’ll be right back,” he finally says to me. He gets out of the car and heads toward the water side of the ferry. He keeps his head down as he moves along the row of parked cars. I only realize he’s crying, when he wipes the sleeve of his leather jacket across his face. It isn’t raining. There is no other reasonable explanation for this. Five minutes go by in this oppressive silence. With trembling hands, I press the speakerphone symbol and play the messages on my cell phone. It’s from Robert. He’s crying and I close my eyes as I hear the sound of his broken voice. “Ellie,” my ex-husband says. “Call me as soon as you get this message.” The second message is from Robert as well.
